On a morning deficient of light

There was a gritty tenderness to the day as we rose in the dark and moved about the kitchen in a silence interrupted by the shutting of a cupboard door, the tink of spoon against bowl, a swallow, a rustle of newspaper. The first of the family left the house when the sky glowed darkly blue and from behind curtains our neighbors’ porch lights burned like stars. A fight erupted over a spoon, or, more accurately, the use of two spoons by one person. Apparently, the dishwasher was not turned on last night and there was a shortage of utensils. Harsh whispers became loud voices that were cut short by a command to return to bedrooms in order that the day could be restarted with a better attitude. The house quieted again, and through closed windows I heard the calls of birds and found comfort in their songs sung in darkness, because this is how I comfort my own children, singing to them in the night, cradling souls deprived of sleep.

I’ve got to try that sometime with my kids. Sending them back to their room. But, I like singing too. Jonathan is more of a singer. In the past few days I’ve noticed the birds singing in the morning right before the sun rises.